never time to save; Stars of Orion

never time to save; Stars of Orion Sept 16, 2012 20:06:25 GMT -5

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Post by chelsey on Sept 16, 2012 20:06:25 GMT -5

You never get to choose.
You live on what they sent you.
And you know they're gonna use
the things you love against you.

"She's not going to last a day in that Arena." "You think so?" "She hasn't got the gut to kill." "But, the sponsors could always -" "Diam, it's not going to happen. It's either kill or be killed. And we both know the minute her name was called she was as good as dead."

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I hate it here.

The steel strings bandaged around the crevices of my wrists and the bones of my ankles permanently bind me to words and actions and thoughts that aren't mine. I'm a puppet, every limp limb of mine jolted by the force of the puppeteers. It's a show to everyone - the audience's cheers jeered on with every push and pull of the tsunami raging in my head while the cosmological gravity of the city's atmosphere hushes the sullen currents. Morning light is a fog, polluted with the coalesce ignorance of an entire population, and the night sky is just a darker degree of shadows. (And Death lingers in these shadows and camouflages itself with the dazzling brilliance of stars, so when hands reach out to make a wish, it can grab hold onto their yearning fingers and drag them away to it's collapsing darkness.) There are no feathered birds or pigmented light or enticed songs or clustered stars. There is only darkness. But, I'm not sure if I can plant the blame in the roots of these people's hearts. (These people who have never smelled soil after a night of rain or watched the sun rise over a brazen hill.) If someone lived in darkness for their entire life, how would they ever know that there would be light?

Even if it's illegal, I'm 99.999% sure Tasmain put money on my death. "Look, sweetheart, if you don't find someone else to kick ass for you, then your ass will be kicked." ~~(That's his thoughtful way of telling me to find an ally.)~~

I've never been particularly good at making friends. At home, girls were grounded to their cement surroundings and looked at me weird for gazing towards the "impossible skies."[/i][/color] ~~(Isn't it ironic that the winged girl was the absolute opposite of a social butterfly?)~~ When I wanted to fly, they wanted to find out who Bobby McCarthy had a crush on. They didn't understand me, and I didn't understand them.

Except, this time, I'm not supposed to be "making friends." In the cold paneled floors of the Training Center, I hardly think it'll matter who Bobby McCarthy likes or whether or not I can fly. In this moment, there is nothing more to understand of one another. In this moment, the only plausible thing is to leech onto one each other in hopes of either prolonging death or inviting it. This time, the only thing expected of me is to make an ally. And the definitions of "friend" and "ally" are a great distance away from one another.

"Then who, exactly, did you have in mind?" I grunt back to him, irritation thickly weaved in my voice. If he notices, he doesn't acknowledge it. "There's the girl from Two, the lunatic from Four, and the volunteer from Twelve. Not much of a buffet, but choose wisely, anyway, dearie."[/i]

The next day, my feet find themselves stumbling towards the girl from Two, and my mouth runs without me even processing my actions. [/color] "We would last longer if we paired up." I fold my hands behind my back, staring at a point somewhere on the ground as if it could make this conversation any easier on the both of us. "And if we had the girls from Four and Twelve, too, we'd last even longer."

Tasmain was right. I was dead the moment they called my name.[/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/color]

One foot in the grave.
One foot in the shower.
There's never time to save.
You're paying by the hour.

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never time to save; Stars of Orion Sept 18, 2012 20:55:56 GMT -5

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Post by Python on Sept 18, 2012 20:55:56 GMT -5

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Dummies slashed and scarred by a dragon’s claws littered the floor of the training center, worthless and surely to be forgotten like the twenty-three stars whose lights would fade as their bodies leaked and stained the arena crimson. The instant Demeter Glor~~ious~~y stepped foot into the infamous wonderland was the moment she had decided she would enter as the past and emerge as new.
It’s time for a change. She had been waiting for this opportunity - to start over, change her life, recreate her identity - since the night she first shared a bed with district two’s filth, and although murdering children hadn’t been what she originally had in mind, she was not about to soil the chance because of petty reasons like guilt or sympathy. No, she would reign with ruthlessness. Fear was not a companion, mercy was not in her vocabulary. Her only wish; kill every last one. Was her survival more significant than morality? Yes. More important than the lives of innocent children? Of some who came from happy families, who didn’t deserve to perish so tragically? Yes. The answer would always be yes. Morals? A foolish joke. Didn’t you know? Dragons are immune to guilt.

Another silver dagger implanted itself within a dummies chest, a nonchalant Demeter watching curiously as her aim steadily grew more and more accurate as each hour passed. As she shifted her weight to grab another weapon, a high-pitched noise suddenly disrupted her focus. ”We would last longer if we paired up.” An alliance request, but from who? Her jades flickered to the source of the sound, finding only the disappointing presence of a scrawny, light-haired girl Demeter failed to recognize. Her best guess; ten, eleven, or twelve. The specks of grey dust among bars of gold. An alliance? Was she joking? ”And if we had the girls from Four and Twelve, too, we’d last even longer.” She wasn’t. From the perspective of a lone tribute, the idea of an alliance wasn’t too unappealing. As much as she disliked stereotypical careers and their masses of brainless sponsors, she had hoped to merge into the group and form an alliance, thus improving her chances. However, the pack seemed disinterested in her skill or potential contribution, and who was left had been deemed useless to her, so she had decided to play it solo. On the other hand, what this girl was suggesting didn’t sound like such a horrid idea once the devious gears in her brain began to creak and turn.

The girl from four - a Libertine. Popular name, but too young and scrawny of a tribute. Like Penelope, her life would end tragically. And the girl from twelve? Well, despite the amount of district twelve victors in existence Demeter wasn’t going to invest much faith in her. Still, what the mysterious girl was proposing didn’t seem like a disadvantage once she considered her placement in the arena. Three frail little girls following her trail, listening to her orders? They could act as her personal shields. They will be forgotten, after all. Yes, the idea was perfect. Devious, malicious, perhaps evil, but perfect nonetheless.

Crossing her arms, she surveyed the girl from afar, still failing to recognize her face - not that her identity mattered, anyway, since her body would soon lie with corpses. ”If you can convince the other two to join us, you’ve got yourself a deal.”